Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

Before Thoresby could think of a comment, Wykeham jumped in with a protest. “But, Your Grace!”

Edward turned slowly towards Wykeham. “You disapprove?” The ice in his voice was unmistakable.

Wykeham’s already heightened colour deepened. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but Ned Townley … Perhaps you have not heard the rumours, but surely you have heard of the drowning of Sir William of Wyndesore’s page?”

“Ah.” The King rolled his eyes. “ That nonsense. Mistress Alice assured me that Townley could not be guilty, he lay with her maid that night.”

Thoresby closed his eyes. Mistress Alice. What was she up to?

“Still, Your Grace, there are those who yet whisper …” Wykeham began.

“Indeed. That is just the point, William. He is condemned when he is innocent. Townley is best out of the way until Wyndesore convinces his men of their mistake, or at least until tempers cool. We would not want my son’s spy attacked, would we?” Edward pointed his dagger at Thoresby again. “And his man Archer was Townley’s captain, did you know that, William? Archer was Henry of Grosmont’s captain of archers. Who better to take charge of Townley for now?”

Wykeham’s tall frame trembled. With rage, Thoresby was certain. The privy councillor’s usually expressionless face registered indignant disbelief. “Your Grace, I beg you. I must protest for yet another reason.”

King Edward sighed, leaned back in his chair, studied his nails, cleaned one with the tip of his dagger. “You grow tedious, William.”

Thoresby drank his wine and thanked his good fortune. The King might rethink his preference for Wykeham if the man proved intractable.

Wykeham licked his lips. “Your Grace, I am quite sure that the Duke of Lancaster opposes my promotion. And as Ned Townley is his man, I am frankly uneasy.”

“So I can see.” The King glanced at Thoresby. “This Townley. Was he not the one who found that rogue Sebastian for me?”

“With Captain Archer’s aid, yes, Your Grace.”

Edward grinned, turned back to Wykeham. “He has been trained to obey orders. He is my son’s man. He will obey me, William.”

Wykeham nodded, lifted his cup to his lips with surprisingly steady hands, and sipped carefully. “Who travels north with Ned Townley, Your Grace?”

“It will be the same as with the other groups I have dispatched. Soldiers, a priest or a friar – several in some cases.” Edward suddenly pounded the table. “I know what will let you rest easy. Don Ambrose will accompany Townley. He is loyal to you, and an Austin friar – though they like to preach against pluralists, here is one devoted to you. That should impress the saintly Cistercians. What do you say, William?”

Thoresby was puzzled. An Austin friar on such a mission?

Wykeham’s long face wore a pained expression. “Your Grace, I had thought to take Ambrose into my household.”

“All the better. Knowing he is to reside in your household on his return, the man will be doubly dutiful.”

Wykeham glanced over at Thoresby, who closed his eyes slowly, opened them, gave one almost invisible nod. Accept the King’s plan. There is nothing you can do .

Wykeham understood. He gave the King a little bow. “Forgive me for questioning the plan, Your Grace. I can see now that all will be well.”

Well, he was a fool if he meant that, Thoresby thought. Something odd was behind this plan. He could not help suspecting his old enemy, Alice Perrers.

Early the following day Thoresby received an invitation to dine with Wykeham. He had expected the invitation; it had been obvious that the King’s choice of escorts for the journey to Fountains had disturbed the privy councillor. Thoresby accepted the invitation with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

He made his way to Wykeham’s quarters in the early afternoon, amused by their location in the same tower in which Wykeham had resided as Clerk of Works, supervising the renovation and expansion of the King’s castles. Wykeham lived among the guards, lesser clerics, and servants. As Keeper of the Privy Seal, it was an inappropriate residence. Thoresby assumed it artful humility.

The building was at least of sturdy stone, and the windows were glazed. It was not one of the typical lower ward wattle and daub structures that periodically burned. A clerk led Thoresby up to the main chamber. The Archbishop bowed his head and stepped through the doorway; within, he brought his head up to gaze round in surprise. It was a far more comfortable room than he had expected, of generous size, with a curtained bed in the corner to the left of the doorway, a brazier and a table with chairs nearby, a writing-desk beneath a south-facing window.

“The councillor is up in his workroom,” the clerk said, leading Thoresby up yet another flight. Thoresby entered the room and paused, amazed. On makeshift counters along the wall and tables in the middle of the room stood models – towers, turrets, stairways, porches, window tracery, archways, gates, a small house, a mill – some tall, some quite small, some visible only by peering behind or over one of the others. Thoresby slowly wandered through the maze, marvelling at the care that had been taken with even the simplest model. He touched nothing for fear he might do damage. Few of the models seemed intended for display – most were unpainted, made from salvaged wood, stones, obviously whatever came to hand – but all had been assembled with careful measurement.

Was this Wykeham’s purpose in inviting him here, to his rooms: to give Thoresby a glimpse of his heart? For surely this was evidence of the overriding passion of Wykeham’s life. But why would Wykeham care to impart this to him?

Thoresby found his host at the far end, kneeling in front of a clever model of the Round Tower. The tower stood on a mound fashioned from layers of mud and pebbles. “Welcome to my workroom,” Wykeham said as he noticed Thoresby standing behind him.

“This is a remarkable collection.”

Wykeham nodded. “Years of my life.” As he rose, unfolding his tall, angular body, his knees made popping sounds. “I knelt too long. This tower is always cold and damp. I should pull up a stool, but that requires planning, and I never know what will catch my attention.”

Thoresby could understand. His eyes were drawn here and there, making new discoveries. “You are considering repairs to the tower?”

Wykeham glanced back at the model he’d been studying and shook his head. “No. I was thinking of Daniel’s accident.” He crouched down again, picked up a wooden peg approximating the page, Daniel, and placed it at the top of the mound. The moment he took his hand away, the peg tumbled down the slope. “You see, that is the problem. One does not easily stand there, certainly not in the snow. Not to mention the fact that if he had climbed the mound he would have left footprints, yet there were none that I could see, only the scar of his fall.”

Thoresby considered that. “Daniel fell from somewhere on the tower itself?”

Wykeham rubbed his chin. “Perhaps.” He placed the figure atop the tower, let it tumble from above. It hit the slope halfway down and followed an erratic course.

“You believe Ned Townley is guilty?”

Still crouched before the model, studying it, Wykeham shook his head. “No. It is not that.” He pointed to the top of the mound, where the tower rested. “The snow melts up there during the day, freezes once more come nightfall. By the time I asked to examine it, I could no longer distinguish the scar or any footprints.”

Thoresby found Wykeham’s curiosity surprising. “You climbed round the tower looking for footprints?”